


love is shaped like a warm supper

by Kierkegarden



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Banter, Crowley is such a sucker, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 17:47:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19155895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kierkegarden/pseuds/Kierkegarden
Summary: While dining at a fine establishment one evening, the meal Aziraphale ordered has arrived at the table cold.





	love is shaped like a warm supper

**Author's Note:**

> From the Tumblr prompt by Bookenders. Hope you enjoy these husbands at their shmoopiest!

Crowley had two rules when selecting new restaurants for Aziraphale to try. It wasn’t hard and fast, of course, but the formula was there and if he wanted the angel to be duly impressed, he had found that following these guidelines worked better than a coin toss. The rules went as follows:

  1. The name of the restaurant could not include the word “restaurant” or -- even more paramount -- could not include the phrase “family dining”. There mustn't be any reference to the building that the restaurant is housed in (house, hut, Hell-forbid _shack.)_ Bistro and eatery were occasionally permissible, when the mood struck. A single-word name usually hit the spot just fine. Bonus points if the word was in French.
  2. Despite all claims to the contrary, Aziraphale did care about the design of the place as well as the food. Anything too modern was out.



For all intents and purposes,  _ Sangria _ should have passed the requirements. It was a bit of a hole in the wall, an upscale Spanish-style joint with candles that smelled of sage. Crowley had visited twice before. It ticked boxes of both class and charm with only three booths and a bar, the kind of reservations-only affair that is half exclusive due to its size, and half due to its pricing. 

On this particular evening, Crowley noted the fine-woven upholstery over dark wood that made up his bench, the starched-and-bleached napkins. He also noted the excited, almost child-like grin on his companion’s face.

“Charming, isn’t it?” Taking a sip of their house-made Sangria, Crowley let his serpentine tongue flick out to catch a drop as it dribbled down his chin. It was a force of habit and besides, the stuff was divine. He would rather not waste any of it.

Aziraphale tilted his head back, eyes narrowing; a silent  _ I forgive you (but only because tonight is your treat). _

“Quite,” he said in reply, “I don’t remember even seeing this place before, although I must have walked past it a million times.”

The angel rustled a menu -- artfully tea-stained and crinkly paper printed with a minimalistic listing of six main courses, four appetizers, and three desserts. On the flip side of the menu was the extensive drink list, from which Aziraphale selected his own white grape, pear, lemon, rosemary and candied ginger Sangria and Crowley, the standard red. 

“I almost wish I had gotten yours,” Crowley admitted, “but I couldn’t bring myself to order something called, essentially, Heaven Juice. I still have standards.”

Aziraphale laughed abruptly. “My dear boy, you need to brush up on your Spanish.  _ Sangria Hielo  _ means Ice Sangria. You’re thinking of  _ Cielo. _ ”

“Oh bugger that,” Crowley rolled his eyes, “I s’pose it doesn’t matter anyway. What, with it all being over.”

“Thankfully, yes. And, of course, there’s still round two, my old friend. Buck up!”

Crowley shot him a look.

“Of the drinks, I mean. Obviously the Plan is…”

Aziraphale trailed off, eyes wandering to where their server, a tall and slender human with dark eyes and a warm smile, was walking towards them. Miraculous timing, Crowley thought to himself. The angel cleared his throat gratefully. 

“Are you two gentlemen ready to order?”

“Indeed,” he flashed her a smile so bright and genuine that she couldn’t help but return it, “I’ll have the paella.”

It was the kind of interaction that forced Crowley to consider how lucky he was-- that he could have been reduced to nothing, sizzled away by Holy Water just as easily. Instead he was here, once again, dining with his favorite entity across Heaven and Hell and everything in between. By the grace of something, or someone, or maybe just plain old lady luck.

The server turned towards him. “And for you?”

“Yeah,” Crowley shook himself back to Earth. He hadn’t even bothered to look at the menu. “I’ll uh...have the oxtail stew.”

Crowley couldn’t help but notice that Aziraphale was making one of those too-pleasant faces that he learned Up There. He somehow managed to hold it until she was gone.

“Oxtail stew?” The angel smirked, eyes sparkling with a gentle mischief, “Practicing restraint, are we?”

Crowley clicked his long tongue against his teeth. “Not very nice,” he hissed, “Besides, I’m sure it’s _ fancy _ oxtail stew. Everything’s good here.”

“Fancy oxtail…” Aziraphale dabbed his eye with a napkin.

“Shut up.”

 

***

 

Their food came in a delicate arrangement of color and texture. It could only be described as art on a plate. The paella, sunshine yellow, had visible strands of saffron nestled amidst plump tomatoes, mussels-in-shell, and rings of calamari. Even Crowley’s oxtail stew was elegant, a deep burgundy color with sprigs of parsley and the rich orange of caramelized carrots.

“Shall we?” said the angel, unable to tear his eyes from his plate, “Lord, in Heaven, we thank your Holiness for this food on our --”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Crowley, a spoonful of the savory broth inches from his mouth, “Speak for yourself.”

It was good. Of course, if Crowley had it to do over again, he would have copied Aziraphale’s order or gotten something else. Oxtail stew was dangerously close to British food. It  _ was _ good, though, for a stew. At least top ten, and Crowley had, unfortunately, eaten hundreds of stews. There was a time when all anyone would ever eat was stew -- and porridge, which was basically grain stew. It made the demon shudder to remember.

When Crowley looked up, he was puzzled to see a look of distaste on his companion’s face -- as though he too were remembering the fourteenth century.

“Is something wrong, angel?”

Aziraphale shook his head quite quickly. 

“Certainly not. Everything is perfectly to my liking.”

Knowing someone for a century is roughly as accurate as a modern polygraph test, when it comes to lie-detection. Intimately knowing someone for upwards of six thousand years is pushing the supernatural in terms of telepathy. Unfortunately for Aziraphale, he had always been rubbish at hiding his dissatisfaction. Crowley was sure that, if they had bothered to look over, even the strangers at the booth beside them would have been able to say with certainty that he was lying through his teeth.

“It’s not,” Crowley said, “Something is off. You’re worrying about something.”

“Nonsense. I’m, er, how do they say it? Cool as a cucumber.”

Crowley gave a little snort, “Cool as a…” he repeated, “Tell me what’s the matter, angel. Who do I need to send to their eternal damnation today?”

“That’s just it, though! I don’t want to be high maintenance.”

That one earned a full-bodied laugh from Crowley. It couldn’t be helped.

“Fine,” the angel gave in, “but no damning.”

“No damning,” Crowley agreed.

 

***

 

“My paella,” Aziraphale looked down, flushing furiously once again, “‘s’cold.”

“It’s what?”

“It’s _ cold _ . But it’s really not a trouble. Not like it’s inedible,” He pushed the rice around pathetically with his fork before setting it down miserably against a mussel shell.

“Oh, that’s really it then?” Crowley was slightly wine-drunk at this point. He could feel it in his cheeks, tingly soft and warm. Damned Sangria was so easy to get drunk on, it was basically juice. You could practically chug it. 

“Watch this!” The demon banged his fork against his sugar-rimmed wine glass, “Waiter! WAITER!”

“ _ Crowley,”  _ Aziraphale hissed, willing Crowley’s fork to pop neatly out of his hand and back to its rightful place on the left-hand side of his plate, “This is exactly what I was afraid of. You’re making a scene.”

“Ice Sangria!” Crowley said, thinking it far more funny than it actually was, “More like Ice Paella, am I right?”

Their server emerged from the kitchen, a look of dread on her face. Talk about timing, Crowley’s muddled brain managed to think, somebody ought to give her a raise. Not the cooks though, whoever they were. They ought to be fired for mucking up his angel’s order.

“Gentlemen, is everything to your liking? I, er, thought I heard shouting.” 

Poor dear looked so timid and nervous, Crowley thought to himself, a smile creeping across his lips. He was still a demon after all.

“ _ Actually, _ ” Crowley said --

“Actually,” Aziraphale said -- cutting him off, which, Crowley thought, was incredibly rude -- “ _ Actually,  _ everything is just lovely, thank you. My dear friend here has simply had a bit too much --” he made a gesture like a bottle tipping back.

The server nodded. “Right, well. I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on yas.”

“ _ Back in a few minutes to check on yas,”  _ Crowley set his glass down with a thud, “You should have sent it back.”

“Would you --” Aziraphale snapped, his face suddenly softening slightly, “Look, I know you want me to enjoy my food but it would be most ungrateful of me to make a fuss.”

“Fine, have it your way,” Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, sobering, “Just a minor miracle, then, to nuke it. It’ll be just like a microwave. Ah!” He rubbed his eyes, as the sobriety set in in full, with cold and heavy pounding. Aziraphale shook his head.

It was just sitting there getting colder and colder, Crowley thought to himself, now that he was able to think coherently -- where had he gone wrong? He had followed the age-old restaurant formula. He had been a right proper gentleman, insofar as a demon could be one.

“The, er, powers that be would never understand,” Aziraphale said, “They don’t actually eat, you know, up there. Our very existences are towing the line and you know, the Great Plan, whatever it has in store for us. I can’t risk it on microwaving seafood.”

Crowley leaned back again the booth, deep in thought. He’d be damned if Aziraphale left disappointed. Heaven was so tetchy about what miracles were performed and where -- but Hell --

“Hellfire!” exclaimed Crowley, “I’ll put the infernal blaze into it! Just the plate, of course, and you’ll have to mind where you touch.”

“Risk my very existence on a warm supper?” said Aziraphale, “My dear boy, you are insane.”

 

***

 

Aziraphale got his way, in the end, of course he did. They packaged up his dinner in a little brown box. He insisted that he’d reheat it in the oven when they got home. 

“The old fashioned way,” he explained as the pair walked out, the door chiming behind them, “So the heat distributes evenly.”

“A miracle,” said Crowley, “would have been the  _ real _ old fashioned way.”

Aziraphale held his gaze for a long time, one hand on his box and the other intertwined with Crowley’s black gloved fingers. They made an unlikely pair to wandering eyes, hand-in-hand on their way to the Bentley. It had gone dark since they got here, and a slight drizzle had begun to fall from the looming clouds. In the moonlight, Aziraphale’s face was beaming. He doesn’t look disappointed at all, Crowley thought. 

“You know,” said the angel. Crowley placed the leftover box atop the bonnet and dutifully got the passenger side door for him. He never used to get the door for him. It seemed in this post-apocalyptic world that he was losing his touch. Going soft.

“You know, I don’t know if I’ve said it before.”

“Said what?” Crowley strapped the box of paella into the back seat. He would rather be discorporated than have his car smell of spoiled seafood.

“I don’t think humans have a word that covers six thousand years of quaint little restaurants, moral discussion, and front-row theatre viewings.”

“I don’t think many humans could fathom six thousand years of anything.”

“No, I don’t suppose,” Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning back against the cool leather.

The Bentley started with a loud, familiar rev. The whir of the engine and the spinning wheels splattering against the rain-slick streets was Crowley’s preferred silence. He went a bit slower than he would have if it was just him alone. For the seafood, he assured himself, in case it might spill.

“ _ Love _ ,” said Aziraphale quite suddenly, after a few minutes, “Six thousand years of all that. That’s what they’d call it if they found a way to fathom it.”

One hand slid from the wheel and found its way into Aziraphale’s. Crowley sighed.

“Yeah,” he said finally, “I guess they would.”


End file.
